Authors: Muriel Spark
‘Are
you short of ready cash?’ said Lyte, and already he had risen from his chair
and was walking over to a cupboard in which he kept a black tin cash box.
‘The Chief hasn’t decided,’
Inspector Fergusson said. ‘It depends on a number of factors to do with our
evidence.’
‘But
when do you think this unfortunate occurrence will be settled, Mr. Fergusson?’
Patrick trailed on.
‘A
month or two.’
‘I have
some little news for you,’ Patrick said.
‘Now,
Patrick, I must warn you, we’ll do our best but this time we can’t guarantee
your protection. The Chief told me to tell you. So news or no news…
‘I’ve
been helpful to you,’ Patrick said, shuffling his feet bashfully and looking
down at them. ‘And I could go on being helpful, Mr. Fergusson.’
‘What’s
the news, then?’ Fergusson said.
‘Well —
after what you’ve just said, Mr. Fergusson, I don’t really feel inclined—’
‘I’m
surprised at you, Patrick!’ said Mr. Fergusson. ‘I really am surprised.’
Patrick
swallowed and looked frail and ashamed. His knees closed in together and he
grasped the seat of his chair like a schoolboy.
Inspector
Fergusson offered Patrick a cigarette. Patrick took one; his hand was shaking.
‘Well,
Patrick,’ said big strong Mr. Fergusson, ‘you haven’t ever let me down yet.’
‘No,’
Patrick said. ‘I thought you were going to bear that in mind with reference to
Mrs. Flower, the unfortunate…
‘I’m
being straight with you,’ said Fergusson, his square good shoulders blocking
the lower half of the window-light, ‘and I’m telling you that we can’t promise
to protect you this time. I can’t promise anything. You’ve always had a square
deal for any information you’ve passed on.’
‘There’s
a lot that goes on in Spiritualism,’ Patrick observed with timid sociability. ‘From
your point of view,’ he said.
‘Tell
me, Patrick,’ said big Mr. Fergusson, ‘did you never think of getting married?
It might have made a man of you. It might have kept you straight.’
‘I’ve
always believed in free love. I’ve never believed in marriage,’ Patrick
murmured. ‘Why should man-made laws…
Fergusson
tilted back his chair and heard him out: man-made laws, suppression of the
individual, relics of the Victorian era…. Patrick’s thin voice died out ‘… and
all repression of freedom of expression and self-fulfilment….’ It sounded
good-class reading stuff.
‘You’ve
certainly got ideas of your own,’ stated Fergusson, standing up. ‘I’m a married
man myself,’ he stated. ‘Well, Patrick, I’ve got work here in front of me to
do. Keep in touch.’
Patrick
stroked his hair. He stood up, opened his mouth to speak, and sat down again.
‘I’d
like to be as helpful as possib…’ Patrick said. ‘Well, tell me the tale and
get it off your chest.’ Inspector Fergusson drew a note-pad towards him and
poised his pen.
‘There
isn’t actually a tale. Only a name. There was an unfortunate occurrence the
other night—’
‘What
name?’
‘Dr.
Mike Garland.’
‘What
about him?’
‘He
poses as a clairvoyant.’
‘A
fraud.’
‘Oh
yes. He attempted to question me while I was under the other night. He’s very
friendly at the moment with Mrs. Freda Flower.’
‘Where
does he live?’
‘I’ll
find out, Mr. Fergusson.’
‘What
does he do for a living?’
‘I’ll
find out if you’re interested, Mr. Ferg…’
‘Only
for the records,’ said the Inspector. ‘What does he do for a living?’
‘I’ll
find out, Mr. Fergusson. I thought his name might be helpful,’ Patrick said.
‘Thanks.’
Fergusson was scribbling his notes. ‘Brief description, Patrick, please. You
know what we want.’
Patrick
cast his pale eyes to the ceiling. ‘Nearly six foot, fairly stout, age about
fifty, greying hair, fresh complexion, round face, blue eyes.’
‘Right,’
said Fergusson. ‘What does he do for a living?’
‘He
goes about with a Father Socket.’
‘Who’s
he — a clergyman?’
‘I don’t
know, Mr. Fergusson. I haven’t met Father Socket.’
‘Are
you sure?’ said Mr. Fergusson.
‘Yes,
Mr. Fergusson,’ Patrick said. ‘But I’ll find Out about him for you.’
‘Right.
What does Garland do for a living?’
‘Mr.
Fergusson, I hope you can do something for me with regard to the unfortunate___’
‘It’s
in the Chief’s hands, Patrick. Defrauding a widow of her savings is a serious
crime on the face of it.’
‘I was
tempted and fell,’ Patrick said.
‘So you
said in your statement,’ said Mr. Fergusson, tapping the heap of files on his
desk.
Patrick
looked yearningly at the files as if wishing to retrieve the statement that lay
in one of them.
‘Mrs.
Flower still isn’t prepared to give evidence, though?’ Patrick said.
‘She’ll
have to give evidence.’
‘Satisfactory
evidence?’
‘We
aren’t sure of that, as yet.’
Dr. Lyte sat in his
consulting room after the last of the evening surgery had departed and his
receptionist had locked up and gone home. He was in a panic, and this caused
him to lose his head so far as he was writing the letter at all; but it was the
panic which, at the same time, prompted the lucidity of what he wrote.
Dear Patrick,
Please
do not think I don’t want you to borrow my chalet in Austria for your
forthcoming holiday with Alice, but I feel bound to repeat that I think it
inadvisable, from the medical point of view, that Alice should be exposed to
the certain inconvenience of this inaccessible place.
I
just want to put a few of the drawbacks on record. In fact, I feel bound to do
so.
You
said previously that Alice was probably careless about her insulin injections.
Although you told me to-day that your suspicions in this respect were
unfounded, I feel bound to say that any carelessness in the administration of
the injections (too much or too little) while Alice is in a condition of
pregnancy, might prove fatal.
In
fact, I should feel bound to obtain an undertaking from Alice on the whole
question of her injections, before permitting the use of my chalet.
I
should also wish to make certain that you took with you sufficient supplies of
insulin, because the nearest town has no druggist.
Alice,
I believe, would certainly die within a few days or even sooner, if deprived of
her insulin. You know she has two sorts which she administers just before
breakfast.
(a) Insulin
soluble for immediate effect.
(b) Protamine
zinc for more prolonged coverage throughout the evening and the following
night. She needs 8o units.
But
Alice understands all this. I understand she tests her urine for sugar and
acetone first thing in the morning, and she can adjust the dosage accordingly.
You must see that this is done.
The
last time I saw Alice she told me she was still visiting the diabetic clinic
every six months for routine assessment of progress.
If
Alice were to take
too much
insulin and then, say, went for a hearty
climb or long walk, she might easily die on the mountainside. Most…
Dr. Lyte
stopped writing. What am I saying, what am I doing? he thought. It came clearly
to him, then, that he suspected Patrick of an intention to kill the woman, if
you could call it an intention when a man could wander into a crime as if blown
like a winged leaf.
What
evidence have I got? Lyte thought. None at all. He wrote on, nevertheless.
… diabetics carry
glucose or even lump sugar in their pockets to be taken at the first onset of
the symptoms of hypoglycarmia — a dangerously low blood sugar-content, which
the patient can check from the urine-test ….
Dr. Lyte
put down his pen. If Patrick were to add a little sugar to her urine specimen
so that she would take a hefty dose of insulin, and then to make her take a
good walk without her little tin of glucose — Patrick might say to Alice ‘Oh,
you don’t need your handbag’ — she would probably pass out on the mountainside.
Or suppose he substituted his own urine in the test tube so that she would take
an under-dose? Or suppose he himself gave her the injections? Insulin was used
in the concentration camps as a method of execution. Insulin, said Dr. Lyte to
himself, is a favoured mode of suicide amongst doctors and psychiatrists, it is
rapid in effect. He looked round the room which he had furnished so carefully
to match the red carpet and to be suitable to himself, and it seemed, in
retrospect, that when he had chosen the furnishings of this consulting room, he
must have been pretending all the time that the world is not a miserable place.
It was sometimes not easy to establish death by insulin. He wrote on:
Therefore I feel bound
to warn you of the dangers…
Then he stopped. I feel
bound. I feel bound to warn you. In what position, he thought, am I to issue
warnings to Patrick Seton? It is he who comes with his unspoken warnings to
me.
Dr. Lyte
read through his letter. Clearly if he had any suspicions of Patrick’s
intentions towards the girl, this letter betrayed it. Such a letter might — it
certainly would — provoke a man like Patrick. One never knew where one was with
a man like Patrick Seton. Patrick knew a lot about his early career. Patrick
was dangerous.
And
then, what evidence was there for his suspicions? Patrick had said, ‘How long
would it be before she died if she neglected to take insulin?’ That was no
ground for suspicion.
Lyte
tore the letter up into little bits, placed the little bits, a few at a time,
in his ash-tray and set fire to them with his cigarette lighter until they were
all burned up.
Then he
recalled that Patrick had said, ‘She won’t let me give her the injections. She
won’t let me see her taking the injections.’
Then he
recalled quite clearly that Alice had told him, ‘Patrick does the injection for
me every day. Patrick is so good at it, I don’t feel a thing.’
And
then the whole problem was too much. The doctor was indignant at being
subjected to it. The one incident in his career which he needed to hush up,
Patrick had somehow got hold of. This one mistake had occurred twenty-seven
years ago when he was still a single man, a different person altogether. You
change when you marry and establish yourself, everything that happened
previously had nothing to do with you any more. But Patrick sitting in his
so-called trance had said plainly that night at the séance, ‘There is a new
visitor to our Circle, a man of the medical profession. Gloria wishes to tell
him that she is watching over him, and remembers every detail of the incident
in 1932 about which there was a certain amount of mystery at the time. Gloria sends
this message to the visitor in our midst who is a member of the medical
profession: he should become a spiritualist and attend séances weekly. She is
exhausted, now, and has no more to say for the present. Gloria wishes to say
she is exhausted. The effort of speaking from the other side is exhausting.
Gloria is tired. She feels weak. She is exhausted….’
Gloria
had died as the result of an illegal operation in the summer of 1932. There had
been enquiries. Nothing came of them. Cyril Lyte, newly qualified, was not even
questioned, he was abroad during the questioning. He had been one of many
lovers during the previous winter. ‘I’m tired. I’m exhausted,’ Gloria had said
when the hasty operation was over. He had left her with the two middle-aged
women, neither of whom knew his name. The two middle-aged women were lifting
Gloria’s feet and shoving pillows, cushions, blankets under them, for he had
said she must not lose too much blood; be careful, keep her feet up,
up. ‘
I’m
exhausted’: Gloria had died next day. He was abroad during the questioning. He
became a communist for a space, by way of atonement. Within a year he had
mostly forgotten the incident and when he remembered it, assured himself he had
done his best for her, and what proof had he that the child was his?
Patrick’s
message, twenty-seven years later in the dark séance room, nearly led him to a
nervous breakdown. Whichever way he looked at it, whether Patrick had spoken
in innocence or from hard knowledge, the message was frightening. ‘Gloria sends
this message… remembers every detail… is exhausted, is tired, is exhausted.’
It sounds like hard knowledge, Lyte thought.
In the
end, Cyril Lyte found it less frightening to believe that Patrick was a common
blackmailer, and no medium between this world and the other. Patrick had called
at the surgery the day after the séance. When the doctor had tormented himself
for a week he gave way and challenged Patrick on the subject. At first he found
Patrick vague as to the details of the message, but very soon asserting his
power, and this comforted Dr. Lyte. Patrick was no medium, he told himself.
There was no danger from the dim spirit of Gloria, the only danger to be
reckoned with was Patrick who was tangible and who must have known the truth
all through the years that had passed since he himself had been a single man
and so different. As he had sometimes, waking at nights in the weeks following
Gloria’s death, dreaded, he was convinced, now, she must have written a letter
before she died, or told someone. Patrick had recognised him at the séance. And
so Dr. Lyte settled down to supply Patrick with cash, and sometimes to supply
Patrick with drugs which assisted him in his trances — ‘You’re certainly a
great medium!’ Dr. Lyte would permit himself to remark as he handed the drugs
into Patrick’s meek hands. He had heard somewhere that even genuine mediums
used drugs; but the doctor strengthened his will against the idea and was determined
not to believe it. ‘You’re certainly a great medium!’ — and Patrick would
sometimes wink with his eyelid which in any case drooped. Dr. Lyte supplied
cash and drugs. If he should seem to falter or keep Patrick too long in the
waiting room, Patrick would say, ‘When are you coming to another séance? I may
have another message for you.’